Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Revenge Seduction, Book 2: Heated Rivalry (Game Changers), Episode: s01e01 Rookies (Heated Rivalry), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, POV Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Has a Bad Day, Jealous Ilya - but he's jealous of Shane, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Porn With Very Little Plot, Dom/sub Undertones, First Time Blow Jobs, Semi-Public Sex, Clothed Masturbation, Alternate first hookup

Language:

English

Collections:

ICE OUT HR 2026

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-02 Words: 2,986 Chapters: 1/1

Where's my fucking teenage dream?

Summary

This is how it was supposed to go: Ilya Rozanov, all of 17 years old, would win gold for Russia at the World Junior Ice Hockey Championships in Saskatchewan — and he did. Then, just after his 18th birthday, he would return to North America for the NHL entry draft and get picked first overall by the Montreal Voyageurs. He defeated Canada’s golden boy Shane Hollander on the ice, and was widely expected to beat him in the draft too.

But that’s not how it went.

What would have happened in that hotel gym if Shane had been drafted first overall?

Notes

For the prompt: revenge seduction for ICE OUT HR 2026

Thank you allbloomgold for the prompt, and nico, dntat, and meesh for betaing! Title is from brutal by olivia rodrigo.

(I tend towards book canon, so that's what you'll see here!)

This is how it was supposed to go: Ilya Rozanov, all of 17 years old, would win gold for Russia at the World Junior Ice Hockey Championships in Saskatchewan — and he did. Then, just after his 18th birthday, he would return to North America for the NHL entry draft and get picked first overall by the Montreal Voyageurs. He defeated Canada’s golden boy Shane Hollander on the ice, and was widely expected to beat him in the draft too.

But that’s not how it went.

Montreal’s general manager got up on that stage, with big screens behind him and bright lights beating down making his forehead sweat, and announced to the whole world, “With the first overall pick in the 2009 NHL draft, the Montreal Voyageurs select…”

Ilya shifted in his seat, ready to stand.

“Shane Hollander!”

The room erupted in cheers and whistles, and Ilya could hear someone behind him say “I knew it.” How did they fucking know it? How could they have known that, when Ilya himself had been so sure it would go the other way?

He glared over at where Shane stupid Hollander was beaming with a bright smile, hugging his parents, shaking hands with everyone around him, and sliding off his suit jacket so he could climb up to the stage and slip on the legendary Voyageurs jersey offered to him by their GM. 

Ilya knew there were cameras on him, knew he should mask his surprise and anger with a polite smile the way Hollander probably would have, but he couldn’t. His agent nudged him with a sharp elbow and whispered in Russian, “don’t be a baby, you must be gracious.” 

Fuck that, Ilya thought. He was the rightful first overall pick, everyone knew it, and they couldn’t expect him to be happy.

A few minutes later, the Boston Bears’ GM walked out onto the stage and called Ilya’s name, and this time he did plaster on a winning smile. He had to, he wanted his new team to be happy with their choice — he knew they would be once he was out on the ice for them. But under that smile, as he shook hands and nodded politely and accepted pats on the back, he was simmering with anger. 

How dare this short, pretty-faced Canadian steal Ilya’s rightful place at the top? It made no sense. Their careers had been nearly identical up until this point, the only major difference was that Ilya had claimed gold over Hollander and the Canadian juniors team, and that should have been the tipping point. 

He hated Hollander, and his perfect little family, his sweet parents whose faces shone with happiness, while his own father's deadpan expression revealed nothing, not even a glimmer of pride for his son’s accomplishment. He hated the way Hollander had tried to befriend him back in December before they even played against each other. He hated Hollander’s soft-looking lips and charming freckles that spread over his perfect nose and rosy cheeks. Ilya had been fascinated by his looks since that moment in the Regina parking lot. But fuck him. He was pretty, but Ilya hated him.

Once the top three picks had been made, Ilya, Hollander, and the third guy — Sullivan — were shuffled around in front of a row of photographers, all needing to get their shots. It was humiliating standing there holding up his Boston jersey and two fingers, next to Hollander grinning happily with his pointer finger in the air. He was the picture-perfect Canadian hockey star, and Ilya was the stereotypical brooding Russian, and Ilya wanted to destroy him. 

At one point, when they were finally all pulled in different directions for interviews, Hollander bumped into Ilya and said a quick “sorry” before striding off happily with his parents and agent. 

Yeah. Sorry. You should be. You will be.

Ilya spent the rest of the day trying to ignore his father and Hollander, both of whom were lingering spectres reminding him that he wasn’t the best, that he’d failed, that he was a disappointment. 

While he’d become an expert at ignoring his dad, it was impossible to escape Hollander, whose eyes seemed to be on Ilya every time Ilya glanced at him. Every time, his cheeks turned pink and his eyes darted away immediately. Ilya resisted rolling his eyes after the fourth or fifth time it happened. Hollander may have beaten him, but he clearly couldn’t get Ilya off his mind. And Ilya wanted to keep it that way — he’d never let Hollander rest. Ilya would find a way to get him back for this humiliation.

As he lay in his hotel bed that night, Ilya sighed. He couldn’t sleep, the time difference from Moscow was fucking him up. He wanted a cigarette and a drink and to find a girl to bring back to his room and fuck. He wanted to find Hollander and wipe the smug grin off that pretty face. Instead of doing any of that, he grumbled and pulled on his sneakers, heading down to the hotel gym to burn off some of this energy. 

But, of course, Ilya couldn’t have a moment of peace. There was Hollander, running on the treadmill at midnight. He didn’t even turn his head when Ilya opened the door — focused on the white wall ahead of him with too much intensity for a late-night run. Ilya stood there and watched his strong legs in their steady stride, tracked the sweat that dripped down the back of his neck, and followed the swipe of his tongue over his plush lips. 

Ilya couldn’t deny that he wanted him. But he also wanted to destroy him.

Despite there being enough treadmills to leave space between them, Ilya hopped onto the machine next to Hollander and started running, finally getting his attention. He glanced quickly at Ilya, then back to the wall ahead. Ilya scoffed to himself and turned up the speed on his machine so he was going faster than Hollander, but after a minute, Hollander upped his speed too. Fuck this guy. Ilya sped up again, and they kept at it until both their feet were pounding hard on the treadmills at a sprint pace for far longer than was healthy, battling for dominance. 

Hollander finally hit the emergency stop button and staggered off the machine, collapsing against the wall behind them and sliding down to sit. Ilya laughed at his heaving breaths, then slowed to a stop too. Looking down at him, Ilya’s stomach churned with bitterness. The last few years of his life had been leading up to today, and Hollander just swept in and took the one thing he’d been sure of. Winning their stupid little race was fine, but Ilya’s pent-up frustration needed a more satisfying outlet.

He sank down to meet Hollander on the floor, legs stretched out ahead of him, feet almost touching his. As he watched Hollander drag his eyes up Ilya’s body, lingering on his crotch, then his bare arms, and settling on his mouth, Ilya realized Hollander’s secret weakness and almost laughed to himself, knowing exactly how to take advantage of it.

He languidly sipped from his water bottle, eyes lingering on Hollander, whose gaze was stuck on Ilya’s lips. He licked them slowly, and Hollander swallowed hard. This was going to be too easy.

“Have fun today?” Hollander asked derisively once they had both caught their breath. 

“Fuck off,” Ilya rolled his eyes. 

Hollander laughed, “Sorry for ruining your moment.”

Little shit.

Ilya licked his lips again and ran a hand through his hair, knowing it would shut Hollander up. 

“You think I care about you and Montreal?” Ilya asked cooly.

“I think you wanted to be first overall and you weren’t,” Hollander replied, a smug little look on his stupid, pretty face. 

Ilya rolled his eyes and stood, stepping closer to Hollander and looming over him. He didn’t look so smug now. Reaching down a hand, he offered it to Hollander, who looked at it doubtfully for a second and then grabbed it to pull himself up. There wasn’t much space between Hollander and the wall, and as soon as he was standing, Ilya shuffled forward to back him up against it. At over 6 feet tall, Ilya towered over him, and he got a thrill from the way Hollander inhaled sharply and looked up at Ilya with a scowl, all the while maintaining his grasp on Ilya’s hand.

“You think you are better than me?” Ilya asked in a low grumble.

“Montreal clearly does,” Hollander shot back with a bratty tilt of his head. But he didn’t push Ilya away when he shuffled a centimeter closer — the only thing keeping their chests from touching was their clasped hands between them. 

“Does Montreal know you are little brat?” Ilya asked, quirking an eyebrow and smirking down at him. Hollander opened his mouth to protest, but clearly couldn’t think of anything to say, and then closed it. Ilya laughed.

“Does Boston know you’re such an asshole?” Hollander finally shot back, but Ilya just laughed again.

“Such bad words out of such pretty mouth.” Ilya tsked and shook his head.

Hollander finally pulled his hand away, leaving room for Ilya to get even closer.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Hollander protested, but still didn’t push him away. Ilya stuck a curled finger under his chin and tipped it up the slightest bit more.

“I think you know,” Ilya hummed. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Hollander bristled, but his cheeks had turned a deep shade of red that had nothing to do with their exertion on the treadmill, highlighting the dusting of freckles across his cheeks. And still, he didn’t push Ilya away.

“No?” Ilya asked innocently. “Then what is this?” He brushed his thigh against the bulge that was growing in Hollander’s shorts. “I think you like this.”

“I fucking don’t, asshole,” Hollander practically spat. 

“Tell me to stop, I will stop,” Ilya challenged. Again, Hollander’s lips parted in shock, but he didn’t say a word. 

“That is what I thought,” Ilya said before gripping Hollander’s jaw more firmly and leaning down to claim his mouth in a forceful kiss. Hollander froze for a second, but when Ilya darted his tongue out to slide against his lips, Hollander opened for him easily with a soft moan. His arms stayed limp at his sides, but his mouth moved against Ilya’s, responding to his every touch. 

Ilya pulled back, just an inch. Hollander, breathing hard, looked stunned, then angry, but it was dampened by the flush of his cheeks and the sheen of his parted lips.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Hollander hissed.

“Think you enjoyed it,” Ilya pressed forward with his hips to feel Hollander fully hard in his shorts now, letting him know Ilya was too. 

“I didn’t… fuck… I…,” Hollander stammered while Ilya just looked down at him, finally feeling like he had wanted to feel all day: powerful and in control.

Leaning down, Ilya whispered into Hollander’s ear, “Is okay, I like it too.” Hollander shuddered and Ilya felt a flash of arousal shoot through him. He held Hollander against the wall with both hands squeezing his hips and crashed their mouths together again, and this time Hollander didn’t hesitate at all. He plunged his tongue into Ilya’s mouth and shoved his hands into Ilya’s sweaty hair, and they kissed, sloppy and hard for a long minute before Hollander pulled away again.

“Anyone could just walk in here,” he hissed, catching his breath.

“Better be fast.” Ilya moved his hand to grip Hollander’s erection under his thin workout shorts, making him gasp and moan, before he took the hint and started rubbing Ilya over his own shorts. “You want to touch me, Hollander?”

It looked like it pained him to do it, but he nodded, and Ilya wanted to devour him. He was too easy. 

“You are desperate for it.”

“Fuck you,” Hollander grumbled while reaching his hand into Ilya’s shorts and taking his cock in his hands. 

“Yes, like that,” Ilya whispered, leaning in to kiss down Hollander’s jaw and neck, savoring the little sounds he kept making with every wet press of Ilya’s lips and tongue on his skin. This was good, but Ilya wondered if Hollander would do more — he felt pliable, like he’d do anything Ilya said, and it was a thrill to rile him up. 

“Get on your knees.”

Ilya felt Hollander’s dick get harder under his hand, and he chuckled deep in his throat at the sight of his wide, blinking eyes. Before Ilya could say anything more, Hollander dropped to his knees and yanked down Ilya’s waistband, and it took all of Ilya’s control not to gasp.

“Good at following directions,” Ilya hummed as Hollander started to stroke him. “I see why Montreal picks you, you will do what they want.”

“Unlike you, who can’t be controlled. You’d be a fucking liability to any team,” Hollander grumbled. 

Ilya didn’t know what that word meant — liability — but he didn’t really care. 

“Will you suck my cock or no?” he asked, running a hand through Hollander’s (soft and beautiful, damn it) hair and tugging a bit at the crown of his head. He yanked his head forward with a grumble.

“If you shut the fuck up,” Hollander said, before opening his mouth and letting the head of Ilya’s cock rest on his tongue. Ilya realized Hollander had probably never done this before, and that knowledge made him buzz with satisfaction. Being the first. Being the only man to see Hollander on his knees like this.

“Get it wet, close your lips, then suck,” Ilya directed, tone gentling a bit and stroking a softer hand through Hollander’s hair. 

“I know,” Hollander tried to sound confident, but his eyes gave his nerves away, and he did as Ilya instructed. 

He wasn’t skilled, and Ilya was trying to feel smug about it, but he was getting too worked up. It was messy and there were more scrapes of teeth than Ilya normally preferred, but Hollander was making up for it with effort and enthusiasm. Ilya’s hand still in his hair, he stroked the back of Hollander’s head as he sucked and licked, and Hollander moaned onto Ilya’s dick.

“Fuck, Hollander,” he whispered, voice rough and overwhelmed already. “You like that?”

Hollander nodded as much as he could with the head of Ilya’s cock still in his mouth.

“You still hard?”

Hollander nodded again.

“Touch yourself.”

With a whimper, Hollander snapped his right hand from where it had been gripping Ilya’s thigh and shoved it into his shorts.

“Good boy,” Ilya shot him a wink, and Hollander rolled his eyes, but got back to bobbing messily on Ilya’s dick. 

Drool was starting to drip down his chin, and fuck, it was hot. Ilya was supposed to be teaching Hollander some kind of lesson here, but he was too damn beautiful with a cock in his mouth, and Ilya was getting lost in scene playing out at his feet — Hollander frantically stroking his own cock while he sucked on the head of Ilya’s, eyes closed and face flushed. 

“Look at me,” Ilya commanded, and Hollander’s eyes flew open, wide and shocked, it seemed, at his own obedience. He pulled off of Ilya, who took his dick in hand and started stroking himself. He held Hollander’s cock-drunk gaze — it looked like Hollander was about to come, his hand moving fast in his shorts.

“You are coming already, Hollander?” Ilya asked, going for teasing but landing somewhere dazed and breathless. 

“Fuck,” was all Hollander said before he shuddered with a moan and the hand in his shorts slowed. 

The sight of him coming, on his knees, with the head of Ilya’s cock resting on his lips, hurled Ilya over the edge, and he came with a grunt. He held eye contact with Hollander as his release splattered over his open mouth and onto those swollen pink lips. Ilya dropped his cock and used his thumb to push some of the cum off of Hollander’s chin into his mouth, and fuck, Hollander closed his lips and sucked it off of Ilya’s thumb. 

“Very good boy, Hollander,” Ilya huffed, overwhelmed but not wanting to let it show. “First overall, but my cum on your face.” He patted Hollander’s cheek twice. “Who is winner? Hard to say.”

That snapped Hollander out of his sex-haze, and he shoved Ilya’s arm away.

“Give me a fucking towel,” he grumbled, standing and pulling his wet hand from his shorts.

Ilya laughed darkly and grabbed a towel from the stack in the corner and tossed it to him. He watched Hollander wipe his face and then his hand, then saw his expression shift from annoyed to terrified. 

He approached Ilya and hissed in an anxious whisper, “You’re not going to tell anyone about this.”

What the fuck did he think, Ilya was going to go upstairs to tell his father and agent that Hollander had just sucked his dick in the hotel gym? But Ilya liked that he was scared, so he just shrugged.

“Rozanov, I’m serious,” he looked panicked now, and Ilya took pity. 

“No, Hollander. But me and you always will know you sucked my cock draft night. I will not forget,” Ilya replied smugly. “You will not forget too, I think.”

“Fine. Whatever,” Hollander chewed his lip. “Just… just don’t say anything to anyone.”

Ilya rolled his eyes, grabbed his water bottle, and turned towards the exit. 

“Our secret.” He winked at a blushing Hollander. “See you December. World Juniors. Who do you think gets gold?” He laughed and walked out the door, leaving Hollander there glaring at his back.

But as Ilya walked back to his hotel room, he couldn’t deny the rush of excitement he felt at the thought of seeing Shane Hollander again.